


Five feet apart because they don't want COVID-19

by yrelec



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), COVID-19, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Modern Era, Pining Merlin (Merlin), Resurrection, Sharing a Bed, quarantine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23868328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yrelec/pseuds/yrelec
Summary: Merlin finds himself quarantined with a newly resurrected Arthur Pendragon amidst the raging pandemic. He may be insufferable, but that doesn’t mean that this won’t be fun.Boredom fic where the boys eat, sleep, and play board games instead of addressing the underlying romantics feelings.As you do.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 199





	Five feet apart because they don't want COVID-19

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should add a little disclaimer here before half of you quit reading midway through when I begin to vaguely discuss politics and economics on a surface level. To clarify: [Boris Johnson is a lying shit.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X_G-FBSf1UI)  
> Am I weirdly right-wing? Yes. Am I willing to get into a civilized discussion in the commentary about this? Yes. Do I agree with you that withholding social welfare is a dickass move? Incredibly so. Merlin expresses some opinions that you might feel don’t jive with his character, but I wrote this at three A.M. and thought it would be fun to play both sides of the argument vicariously through these idiots. Thanks.
> 
> Edit 14/01/21 : am an anarcho-syndicalist now. this is what isolation does to people. I still stand by my point– while conservatism may seem woefully out of character for Merlin, I thought it would be an interesting way to show how tired he's become after centuries of immortality. I have no doubt he'll return to socialism soon enough.

“Are you sure this virus, thing, whatever- you know, I’m not really sure I believe you when you talk about all of these, what are they, small animals that attack your blood. Cells, back- bacteria, and the lot. How do they eat if they are so small? Nothing will fit in their stomachs!” Arthur pauses his digression to look around for inspiration. He snaps his fingers as if the ideas will materialize in front of him. Sometimes he forgets that Merlin is the one with magic, not him. “And the lungs! If these microwaves- no- microbots are as minuscule as wind itself then how do they breathe? If I can’t see them, they must be smaller than light, right? You were telling me about light waves. And if they are smaller than light, then how do their eyes see?”

“Viruses are bigger than air, Arthur,” Merlin replies. “They aren’t really alive, so they don’t have eyes or anything else you are concerned about.”

Arthur frowns in confusion. He has begun pacing beside the kitchen counter. 

“Again, viruses are pathogens- meaning they create disease- but they are no more than a DNA strand encapsulated by proteins. They aren’t alive,” Merlin explains. He is standing by the stove, cooking dinner for them both. It’s jambalaya; Arthur accidentally went out and bought too much rice the week before (grocery stores, for him, are a paradise. It doesn’t help that he never used to cook anything back in Camelot and so has no idea what scale ingredients are necessary) so their diet’s been carbohydrate-rich.

“But they multiply inside the body,” Arthur interjects. “Doesn’t that mean reproduction?”

“Good point, Arthur. Technically, yes. Viruses can reproduce, but because they don’t have their own metabolism they can’t do it on their own. They are like parasites–”

“You’re a parasite,” Arthur grumbles.

“–very mature, sire. They enter other cells and the cells replicate them. The cells they enter stop normal activities and die.” Merlin finishes by scraping the herbs into the top of the pot with the flat of his knife. The removal of the lid fills the kitchen with odorous umami. 

“So I don’t want one.”

“No, Arthur. A virus would not be fun,” Merlin says.

“So when the dogs in the citadel started foaming at the mouth with disease, that was a virus? Not sorcery?”

“Yes. Rabies is a virus. So is the flu- remember when the entire city came down with grippe? That was a virus.” That had been a terrible winter. Not only had Merlin needed to double-time to take care of a diseased Arthur, but he had had to handle tenfold the usual number of patients in Gaius’ quarters. He had been down with the flu along with the rest of the bloody castle, except he had nary a second to find himself treated. 

“That was a terrible winter. So this virus, cobik-”

“COVID–”

“COVID-19, will be as bad as the sweating sickness, then? Worse?” Arthur asks. He is still pacing. The knotted mat beneath his feet trips him up every so often, and the fringe sticks every which way.

‘That really depends. As you know, there are many more people, so it will spread faster and more people will be affected. It’s worse than the flu, too. Granted, in the 6th century, you didn’t have an NHS. And people wash their hands,” Merlin tells him. His wooden spoon cracks against the pot.

“I take it that my immune system is terrible and I should remain in the apartment until they’ve discovered a potion that can cure me?” Arthur stops, striding over to Merlin and leaning over his shoulder towards the heat of the stove. “What are you making again?”

“Jambalaya.” Merlin elbows him in the side, a futile attempt to get the blond to stop crowding him. Arthur doesn’t move, only shifting the elbow away with his hand and grunting. “And yes. You won’t be the only one staying inside, I don’t think. It’s a new policy. Back in the 20s they encouraged people to keep working and had people been crossing the world at the same rate back then, well, there really wouldn’t have been any humanity for you to return to.“

Arthur hums in response, grabbing the spoon from Merlin’s hands and bringing it up to his mouth.

“That would have been ironic. Though maybe less of a culture shock.” He moves away, thrumming with the need for constant movement. He checks the dishwasher, tapping its blinking timer. “Imagine: I wake from my eternal slumber, born again in accordance with the very nature of this home planet, and breach the surface of the Lake to an empty planet.”

“It’s strange to think about, certainly.”

“You wouldn’t have anything to do! The 20s, right? No _Brave New World_ , no internet, no hot girl summers!”

“Arthur, no–”

“You would be so bored out of your mind that you would have given me a proper welcome, actually meet me at the lake instead of coming to break me out of the police station like you did. No police stations! No one would have gotten mad when I stabbed that car-” Arthur rambles on. He clears the sink, manually washing the plates that have collected there throughout the day as his tone jovially carries on.

“What do you think I did before you returned?” Merlin questions indignantly. “I probably wouldn’t have met you at the lake either way. It’s not like I was told when you were returning.”

Arthur simply shakes his head in amusement. “I’m not certain if I should be concerned that it took you so long to find me or glad that I didn’t catch you on an international culture spree.”

“I could have still been down in Yemen. Think about how long it would have been then.”

“Yemen is Middle East, right?” Arthur checks. “More than two days in that police station and they would have sent me to a psychiatric ward.”

Merlin scrapes off the wooden spoon and sets it on the cold marble counter. With a wave of his hand, two plates emerge from their shelves and drift to his hands. He begins serving them, eyes still a brilliant gold as he repels the heat that threatens to burn his fingertips. “I’m not so sure you shouldn’t be in one now,” Merlin cracks.

“Twat. Here I was, about to sort us drinks…” Arthur rinses his hands off, forgoing the kitchen towel to wipe his hands along Merlin’s backside. Merlin gasps. He spins around, leaving both dishes hovering in their place, and aims a kick at Arthur’s shins. Arthur dances out of the way, laughing lightly. He springs over to the refrigerator, rhythm still gracing his footwork. Despite his insinuation that he would refrain from pouring them both glasses of water out of spite, he does just that. If he leaves the refrigerator door open moments too long, basking in the cold novelty of it, Merlin doesn’t judge.

They move together towards the table. Arthur darts back to grab cutlery before Merlin can shortcut, but he brings back only knives and Merlin still ends up doing so anyway. They sit across from each other, savoring the feeling of warm food in their mouths. Merlin can’t help but watch contentedly as Arthur tucks in. He gages his every move patiently. Centuries of missing the King’s golden face lent a distinctly luxurious nature to the act of merely observing, and now Merlin takes his chance whenever possible. Arthur looks beautiful. In the seat across from him Merlin can almost imagine that they are lovers sharing a lovestruck dinner. The fading light seeps through the window and drapes itself over the king, illuminating his waxen hair and his sun-baked face. He has an incredibly masculine chin, Merlin notices. 

“The virus means we’re quarantining, right?” Arthur asks, reaching over to grab the hot sauce and douse his food with it. He only does this because he once saw Merlin do it to his étoufée, and now sees a chance to mimic the behavior whenever a “Louisean” dish is served. It is too spicy for him, yet again. Arthur still has the flavor profile of a medieval knight. The paprika in the chicken is already almost too much for him.

“Yes. We will only be leaving the apartment should it be necessary.” Merlin casually swaps his plate with Arthur’s so that Arthur may actually enjoy his dinner. Being immortal, Merlin has no spice threshold. Being immortal, Merlin has learned to eat almost anything. Hot sauce is still better, he maintains, than 8th-century cuisine.

“That sounds like hell,” Arthur says.

Merlin laughs. “Only because I will be trapped in here with you.”

“Only because you live in this infernal space. Honestly, Merlin, what led you to assume that this hovel was fit for a man! The state to which humanity has deteriorated,” Arthur jokes. He is not really joking. He hates the apartment, if only for its lack of armory and its glaring walls. The wall behind him is a rich pomegranate, a fruit he has yet to try. 

“Come on, you love it here,” Merlin jests. He is rather defensive of the flat, especially when it cost him a half years salary to secure.

“Whatever gave you that impression?” Arthur says. “You’ve got invisible glass windows, Merlin. It’s like you are broadcasting your sorcery-”

“Not sorcery,” Merlin cuts in.

“And you can see the kitchen from the dining space, which is absolutely preposterous. Not to mention,” here Arthur must pause to increase the impact of his point. He leans back on his chair and stabs his fork into his plate as punctuation. “Not to mention, you knew I would be returning and yet you only bought a flat with one bed. Inconsiderate prat, is what you are.”

Merlin has heard this all before. Arthur likes to bring it up when he pretends to mock Merlin’s lifestyle pre-Resurrection. Merlin believes that there are many things that Arthur secretly loves but would never confess to. He likes the floor heating and the running water and the lights that allow him to stay up after dark. He even likes the colors that he still has few names for, like the mustard yellow that caresses the hallway. 

“Just eat your food, sire. I’m sure you’ll survive,” Merlin says.

“Don’t make predictions you can’t hope to keep,” Arthur says, before shoveling in like the uncouth feudalist he is. His wise words are undercut by a moan of gratitude as he tastes the serving. “Rice is the true Oriental pleasure,” he mumbles between mouthfuls. He leans deeper into his plate until there is a direct passage from his spoon to his awaiting mouth.

“I’m fairly certain this rice is from the south of Spain,” Merlin corrects. His mood is impossibly buoyed by the appreciation of his cuisine.

They fall into silence. The meal is consumed that way, quick as hoovers. 

… 

“Would it be possible for us to engage in a board game?” Arthur asks.

“You pick,” Merlin says, not looking up from the book that has him spread out over the kitchen.

He regrets this immediately when Arthur reenters and sets _Risk_ down on the table with a flourish. They have yet to play– and for good reason. While Merlin may be hundreds of years old, Arthur is a military genius. One look at the subtitle, _the Game of Strategic Conquest_ , and Arthur is itching to try his hand. Arthur may have been destined to be a benevolent king, but he is prepared to jump into war at a moment’s notice.

“No.”

“Please?” Arthur asks, his face alight.

They set up the board game in the center of the floor on the hardwood. The pieces are strewn everywhere. Merlin has to reread the rules for himself before he can even begin to pass on the knowledge. The first time they play, Merlin wins, a calm, surprising victory that is stretched over the better part of two hours. A jazz CD slipped into the player skids as it switches tracks, and the house is filled with the clement tones of brass.

They laugh as they work out the rules of the game. They have both become incredibly slow to anger, so their emotions simmer at a competitive jiving. Every time Merlin takes a country, he rises and begins to dance. They only lose the dice to the underside of the couch twice.

Arthur insists that they play again, this time armed with a repertoire of laws. Arthur chooses red and tells Merlin to choose green. Arthur wraps his empire across the continents. He sounds out each territory with childlike excitement: Kamchatka, Irkutsk, and Scandinavian rattle bizarrely in his mouth. They sound foreign to his speech, already so altered by magic. Merlin is dismayed to discover that his upper hand lasted only a single round. Now, Arthur attacks with ferocity and calculated precision. Within the half-hour, he has the Americas in his possession. From there he sweeps eastward across the board, substituting red pieces for yellow when his army grows too vast. Merlin soon only possesses Japan. Even that he must relinquish, as Arthur prevails in just a terrifying seventy minutes.

Merlin would swear to never play the game again and, indeed, voices these concerns, but as he mourns the defeat of his ill-omened army he cannot help but delight in Arthur’s joy. He cannot prohibit a game like this that fills his king with such happiness. Now that Arthur has tasted its promise, he will beg to return to it like an addict to his vice. Merlin, ever the invertebrate, will be hapless in his attempts to dissuade this. Merlin thinks he loves Arthur too much to ever decline.

The sorcerer resigns himself to the fact that he will never win a game of Risk again. Someone with Arthur’s capabilities will soon find a way to win in shorter, more impressive manners. On a positive note, when the quarantine is over, Arthur will be able to try his hand against other players. There is good money in it somewhere. Merlin’s sure of it.

“Thank you for entertaining me,” Arthur says, still riding the conclusion of their latest game. “That conquest was most enjoyable.”

“It was my pleasure,” Merlin replies.

…

Merlin walks into the living room to find Arthur standing proud at their balcony. His hands are on his hips and his stance is strong as he surveys the world outside. The balcony, bare and skeletal, bears the brunt of the mild wind. There is something so triumphant about seeing him there. Merlin has survived. Arthur has survived. They have both conquered everything the universe had thrown at them so far, and they are going to continue to do so.

Merlin opens the door behind him and steps out into the crisp morning air. He has to hand it to Arthur. Just being outside has already uplifted his mood and has him feeling like he can do anything. They are on the 5th floor and everything looks so vast and inconsequential. Merlin can understand why kings stood atop their towers and why eagles are the nobility of birds. 

He leans across the railing and takes in everything at once. When he straightens, Arthur nods, overcome with the feeling himself. They stand there together, Arthur perfectly upright, posture perfect, as usual, and Merlin leaning against the side, gazing more at his companion than at the view at their feet.

They say little. They stay like this, serene, for half an hour, hearts calm within their chests and the morning sun on their faces. Their minds are open and their thoughts are clear and the world around them is lazy and slow. There’s a song at their fingertips, one without words or notes, one that is simply an extraordinary peace.

“I miss the trees,” Arthur says after a few comfortable minutes. 

Merlin glances down at the road. “Yeah,” he says.

“Don’t you think it’s sad,” Arthur continues, “that the only trees left are the ones that line the streets?”

Beneath them, there is a tree every ten paces. Each one is thin and pale and trembling, roadside branches sawed away to prevent any unfortunate accidents. Some are tangled up in the few power lines that still hang above ground. Early April weather has caused the trees to burst into flower, and the budding leaves are waxen against the cobbled streets. They look ashamed to be here, overcome by survivor’s guilt. This city has displaced them. They shudder, alone, as no tree should be.

“I haven’t taken you outside of the city since I went to find you in Avalon,” Merlin says. “The whole world is not yet like this. When this is all over I’ll take you up north, maybe even off the British Isles. You should have seen America before the westward expansion: our forests looked as pitiful as willow groves compared to the endless expanse.”

“That would be nice. Would I be able to understand them too?”

Merlin pushes up from his position and begins to fiddle with his hands. It’s not often that he practices magic so freely, so Arthur tears himself away from the roof of the adjacent building and focuses instead on Merlin. “Definitely. The language spell I cast upon you should work with any human language. Besides, Americans speak English too.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. “What happened to their forests? Were they all decimated, like the forests on the English plains?”

“Yes. The logging industry was all too profitable back in the 19th century.” At Arthur’s deplorable look, Merlin backtracks, not willing to bring down the day’s previously tranquil mood. “But now a lot of it is protected, so it’s okay! They have these trees there that are as tall as Camelot’s highest towers, wider than Camelot’s gates. You could carve a war vessel from a single and every knight would be needed to man it.”

“Trees can’t grow that large,” Arthur says, a disbelieving smile masking his wide and curious expression.

“Arthur, you used to think that potatoes were Satan’s shits and that babies couldn’t feel pain. You aren’t really the voice of reason when it comes to what can and cannot happen.”

He laughs. “That’s true. How would you even cut down a tree as large as that? How old would the tree have to be to reach that height? Do airplanes crash into them because they are so tall?”

“They are not that high,” Merlin says. 

“How would I know that? You’ve kept me woefully sheltered since I stumbled upon this enticing new world. I haven’t had the chance to do anything.”

“Not true.”

“Frightfully honest. You have me locked up in your quarters like a fair and unruly maiden.” Arthur has a look of mild-mannered discontent that hardly graces his features. He pouts in mock frustration.

“I took you to Picadilly the second week you came! Covent gardens almost overwhelmed you. You dropped ice cream all over some poor woman when you saw the inside of the market.” Merlin exclaims. “I had to clean her up while you were busy fawning over a light fixture. It took hours to finally get you through the Underground!”

“Merlin, you must admit it. The train contraptions are terrifying and have no place in a land as densely populated as this. Besides, you cannot possibly express negative emotions towards the way I acted during that outing. I had never seen so many people in one place in all of my time as king.”

“You spent an hour debating the evolution of commerce with me. You couldn’t fathom the possibility of importation on a scale so large.”

“That’s because, in case you’ve forgotten, no true market places existed back at the onset of the Middle Ages. You will have to remember that at the infancy of commerce, there was an impossibility of large cities and deep respect for material goods,” Arthur replies. “No suitable transport and an increasingly disparaging socio-economic climate meant that the people had to remain where the food was, and rely on the scarce few who took up trades to supply them with all they couldn’t self provide.”

“And Covent Gardens, despite its wasteful nature, is a testament to why commerce is progress and why progress is good,” Merlin says.

“I still don’t understand why you side with the Tories, Merlin. The rampant hatred of the people and the disinterest in the wellbeing of the country in favor of the individual is not something I could ever stand behind. It is not an ideal that I, with good conscience, could ever fall into,” Arthur deprecates. His frown bears little levity behind it. He now seeks to understand Merlin on a deeper level, not skim the surface of his beliefs.

“I am much more of a centrist, Arthur, than I think you take me for,” Merlin shrugs. “But I understand your unrest in the current political climate. As a man who has lived far longer than any man here, I have experienced the close-minded beliefs of those who live in fear of change that must come for all civilizations. I extend that knowledge to a deep understanding of the fundamental drive of the Industrial Revolution of the 19th century. I have seen how the Theory of Economics has shifted over the centuries; I have seen how a stable and healthy economy leads to greater happiness in the people and how an economy may make or break a budding government. I have seen the rise and fall of other economic systems around the world. I was with the Bolsheviks when they overthrew the Romanovs; I stood by Neruda as he was chased from his position in the Chilean senate. 

“I know you feel as if I have abandoned my species in my old age. You fear that you have returned to a changed man, one who cares not in the health of his people but in individual betterment. I tell you that I have seen the need for Capitalism, for all of its flaws. I tell you that while impossible to execute perfectly, the system, if it works, should lead to eventual betterment for all people too. I weighed Smith and Marx against each other, met them, debated them, fell in love with both ideologies, and the laissez-faire attitude of the free market came out on top. The libertarian model, Ayn Rand’s model, while dangerously flawed, envisions a perfect world where the success of the individual leads to the success of the whole: it is within our best self-interest to help others, to cultivate growth in our communities, and the best way for us to do that is through right-wing political action.

“I am not in agreement with many of the Tories’ social policies, as you must know. It is only economically they are preferable. Supply-side economics are well thought out and work debatably well. Intensive infrastructure projects and banking sector curves are key to minimizing recession. While I don’t believe in protectionism and Euroskepticism and all of this xenophobic crap, the Conservative party here in the U.K. is solid enough to allow for real growth while weak enough to never do lasting damage. It’s a policy I believe in, one that has the power to truly lead this kingdom into a brighter future.“

Arthur has stayed silent through all of this. He taps at the wood at his waist, processing all that Merlin has just said. “Do you not think that the lack of care towards the common worker and the narrow minded views may desecrate the values that our civilization is built upon, without which we may never have the opportunity to build a world closer to that of the image of utopia?”

“Utopia’s are an impossible dream, Arthur,” Merlin says. 

“Albion was a Utopia,” Arthur points out.

“Albion was unachievable,” Merlin replies.

“Have you no faith in me and yourself?”

“I still have no faith in myself. You shouldn’t either. Just because I’m a wizard doesn’t mean I have some sort of warped sense of superior worth.” He hangs his head lower and watches a pedestrian jaywalk beneath them. It would be so simple, he thinks, not to be caught up in all of this destiny bullshit the universe seems so fond of throwing at him. He could be a simple 21st century man, stressed over taxes and climate change and disobeying the stay-at-home order by popping over to the corner for a non-essential errand and a bakery pitstop. 

Arthur places a hand on his arm, soft and gentle. “There is no one I have more faith in than you, Merlin.” He presses back a smile, glancing away. “And not just because you are a wizard.”

“You shouldn’t,” Merlin mumbles.

“I have trusted you with my life and I will trust you with it again, no matter the circumstance. You could have built the perfect world without me, and probably still will. Despite your cynical views and your terrible grasp of social issues, I am loyal only to you.”

“Isn’t it the other way around? I am your devoted servant.”

“Are you really so daft? I am no more your king than you are my servant, and though you may sustain those backwards beliefs, I, an up and coming cosmopolitan, have moved on. We are equals, are we not?” With a squeeze, Arthur lets go. “It really is a shame that there are so few trees. You should take me to Kensington Gardens. I’m sure we’d have a lot more fun there.”

Merlin laughs. “I doubt it. It’s mainly just grass.”

“Even so,” Arthur says. “It’s still better than this awful apartment.”

“Don’t diss the apartment, dollophead. I can and will kick you out.”

Merlin has to follow Arthur indoors to deliver any semblance of divine retribution, as Arthur, tactfully, has dodged back through the door. They end up sprawled on the floor, caught up in a self-proclaimed stalemate.

… 

Night creeps through the drawn blinds of the bedroom window. Music from the street below reverberates through the glass. A pale sliver of the city lights splices the wall next to the door handle. Merlin is awake, staring up at a ceiling littered with magical instruments. A thousand small metal beads zip in breakneck orbit around the quieted light fixture, and a myriad of wind chimes rustle soundlessly. Impossible feats of alchemy hang down, coated in ribbon and silks. It’s a whimsical sight: one out of a witches hovel in the woods, an explosion of artifacts and dried herbs and texture that could only be the product of intense, fantasy-themed hoarding, or a life lived long past its expiration date. 

A bird, born from tin spoons stolen from the packs of Panama gold rushers, flutters in a lazy circle. Merlin watches as it springs from a thatch of valerian root in the corner and alights on a gilded chalice. While every other room in the house has begun to conform to modern design, this room, the most private of Merlin’s spaces, has always remained a perfect microcosm of the self. There are relics in this room that date back centuries, objects the museums would kill for but that Merlin cannot bear to part with.

The most important of all of the heirlooms that clutter Merlin’s space is the man lying beside him. Arthur sleeps peacefully, head turned, body flat, covers lightly tangled around him. Merlin watches him dream. The king’s face is pressed smooth in this state. He sleeps like a child, golden hair lightened in the moonlight and strewn across the pillowcase. His lips have fallen open, giving way to a brisk exhale.

Merlin couldn’t, in good heart, leave his king stranded on the couch that first night after the resurrection. The man had looked so lost, so stranded in a world that had no use for such a providence as him. Merlin had opened his heart and his bed to him and planned to take the couch or the floor himself in turn. It had been one of the few assured proclamations he had received from Arthur that night that had prevented this: _no, Merlin, I shan’t displace you in your own home._ There had been a quieter, more desperate plea behind his words. _Please do not leave my sight,_ he seemed to say. _I am adrift in a state in which I have no control. Let me be near you so that I may confirm that this dream is true and not the ravings of a madman._

It had taken a week before Arthur felt comfortable enough to change rooms, but by then he had already grown accustomed to the 21st century mattress and the curiosity of Merlin’s room. It would have been cruel to oust him, so he had stayed. It brought a peculiar comfort to the both of them.

On nights like these, when Merlin is pulled awake by glimpses of years long past and a terrible sense of foreboding he had thought he had conquered long ago, Merlin has only to focus on the warmth of the body beside him and the breaths that remind of his good fortune. Arthur, against all common sense, has been brought back. He’s alive. He’s alive, he’s alive, and he’s lying right next to Merlin, close enough to touch.

Merlin presses into Arthur, content. If Arthur should wake up before Merlin does, he will blame this on a subconscious instinct. For now, fully conscious, he will enjoy the secret intimacy. He is quickly lulled to sleep, sinking into a dreamless night. 

… 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Merlin asks, stomach full with home-cooked pasta and mood lifted inexorably. Movies are confined to Thursday nights. Merlin has no popcorn, but he can always summon some from the corner store. He could even generate it spontaneously if he needed to. That’s how happy he feels.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’ve spent an hour today on the computer screen. I do not think my eyes can take much more of the glaring light.”

“What were you doing today?” Merlin has given him free reigns of everything the entire internet has to offer. It’s a bid for free time and a way to let Arthur have autonomy over what he chooses to learn about modern-day life. It’s a gamble, of course. The internet can be a dark place but so far Arthur has only skimmed the surface.

“I checked the list again.”

Arthur, predictably, was overwhelmed by the scope of the world wide web. He had refused to operate the computer on his own, undoing all of the goals Merlin had set out to achieve. They had spent hours that way, Arthur leaned over Merlin’s shoulder at the table, letting out sharp gasps in his ear every time a page was loaded. Photos had been revolutionary, but the reaction had been nothing in comparison to his feedback on video footage. He had lept up in a startled fear, exclaiming how sorcery had gone too far, paced around the room, returned to the computer and snatched it out of Merlin’s grasp, examined it, and set it back down with tentative confusion.

“What is it?” He had asked. 

“A video,” Merlin had replied. They had had to spend the rest of the session explaining the concept behind film and the history of cinema. The news article, from which the video, an interview with the prime minister, had come from, was forgotten.

In an effort to grant Arthur autonomy Merlin had compiled a list. It had almost everything Arthur needed to know about, with subsections for important side topics and contextual information. It started with the history of England and so far it had not ended. Every day they found something new to tag on, be it international relations, human physiology, or Bitcoin. Needless to say, it was incredibly long. Its length was made longer by the fact that Arthur barely knew how to use a computer. His typing was abhorrent, to say the least, and he often forgot to connect it to a charge.

“What did you look up this time?” 

“Shakespeare.”

“And how did you find it?” Merlin remembers the Bard from his time still writing. Merlin had been an actor then. It had been a strange time. Merlin quite preferred Marlowe, if anyone was to ask him. 

“Decent. I can see why people liked him. It’s much better than the dreary religious texts we had in Geoffrey’s library. I still prefer Aneirin’s _Y Gododdin_ 1. That’s a real story worth telling. None of this bumbling idiocy and tales of courtly love. Nothing can top a solid epic.” Arthur states. It is strange to see his mouth contort around the ancient Welsh tongue when Merlin has grown accustomed to modern English.

“Remind me what that’s about?”

“Three hundred brave warriors descend upon Catraeth in a battle for glory and are met with a tragic end at the ends of the swords of heathens. Only Sir Cynon ap Clydo survives the massacre; he is fortuitous enough to have mead and yet remains within his lord’s favor.” Arthur retells the epic with glee and fiery passion. It’s been his favorite text ever since he heard it recited by the bard himself during a feast. He jumps at every chance to regale it.

“Isn’t that one mostly about the feast beforehand?” Merlin remembers being bored out of his mind during those stanzas. Listening to poetry about raucous knights eating while serving a banquet of raucous knights? Boring.

“Yes. In comparison to modern works the plot is quite underdeveloped, I will admit.” Arthur attests. “He does, however, mention me in the 99th stanza. Not that you would know, but it’s quite thrilling to be referenced by your favorite bard in such a way.” Merlin has to bite back a smile on that. After Arthur’s death, he had blown up in Medieval secular media, quickly transitioning from a historical figure to a legend. Gone were the days of reverent mentions placed in an effort to gain favor with the king. Entire epics were now crafted with Arthur front and center. Of course, Merlin was no stranger to being the subject of such ballads either. He hadn’t quite gotten around to introducing Arthur to the mythos born from his life.

“Did you read them?” Merlin asked. “Shakespeare’s plays, I mean.”

“Only two. _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Much Ado About Nothing_. There were many references I wasn’t able to understand, but it is no secret why the English love them.”

“ _‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks!’_ Both good ones, though definitely not the best. You have to read _Twelfth Night_. A lot less complaining in that one. _Henry V_ is also a favorite, but only because I am partial to the military victory at Agincourt.” 

“What is it? _‘It is the sun, and–’_ wait. _‘It is the East, and Juliet is the sun.’_ Lovestruck fool. But yes, I’ll keep those in mind. Do you have paper copies?” Arthur asks. He stumbles on the quotes, but Merlin can’t help but admire his memory. 

“Yeah, uh, on the bookshelf,” Merlin says, pointing. He doesn’t, but the bookshelf is magic. It will figure itself out. He can see a new book fold into place on the edge as he says this, red cover and spine with a gleaming _Complete Works_ in fine print. Arthur strides over, a grandiose length in each step, and hovers only moments before peeling it from its place.

He examines it, flips to the index, and nods. “It’s here,” he says, holding it up. “Mind if I read instead of a film? I know you like watching them on Thursdays.”

It is kind of him to ask. Merlin has always been a fan of movies, but recently his love for them has dissolved into a love of watching as Arthur reacts to each spitting sequence. He has no need for cinema anymore when instead he can gaze upon the man he loves. 

He shakes his head jovially. “It’s fine. I have my own book to read.”

Arthur, upon confirming that his actions bear no ill feelings, sinks down into the chair across from him with a relaxed sigh. He opens the book and his eyes begin to skim. His shoulders loosen as he unwinds. His body has become tranquil. Merlin does have his own book, but he is distracted. There is no hope for him when he is once again overcome with immense gratitude that the universe would be so forgiving as to let him be with the beautiful man in front of him.

 _“If I could write the beauty of your eyes, and in fresh numbers number all your graces, the age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' 2”_ Merlin whispers, overcome with how much he loves the man in front of him.

“Sorry?” Arthur says, glancing up. 

“Shakespeare. If you decide you like his plays, I give you his sonnets.” Merlin has always been one to wax poetic, but never so prolific as this. He knows that Arthur isn’t quite ready for anything of that magnitude, as much as Merlin dares hopes, so he deflects as he’s gotten so skilled at doing.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Arthur smiles. He turns back to his plays, and they read the rest of the day away.

… 

On Sunday afternoon they dance. The devil had clearly taken over them, and they succumb to sin, shaking and laughing in tune to the music. It’s pop, synth beats, and autotune that make the house pulse around them. They fall into it together, hot and giddy, uncaging their spirits and letting them fly wild around the room. 

This is what freedom feels like, even while trapped at home. 

Arthur’s dance moves are still classified as 7th century chic. Merlin’s dance moves flare up in a strange Frankenstein of cultures. He tends to favor the Harlem Renaissance, which has Arthur laughing at the novelty and relative scandal.

The afternoon bleeds into the brisk spring air, and everything is happy.

… 

“You know what the neighbors are thinking, Merlin?” Arthur whispers, pressed tight against Merlin’s side.

“You really shouldn’t interact too much, Arthur,” Merlin mumbles in reply. He cards his fingers through Arthur’s hair where his head has fallen on Merlin’s shoulder. 

He’s proud of Arthur despite his concerns. The man beside him has adjusted so seamlessly into the millennia. He has become the helping hand around the building, using his medieval strength to run errands and perform manual labor. His insistence on learning the ins and out of the modern world bequeathed him with the tools necessary to reroute plumbing, and he does so when asked. Communicating with neighbors had been treacherous at first, heinous torture that drained him of social battery, but now he can hold his own without drawing attention to his alienation.

Even with the quarantine full swing, he still manages to run into everyone in the hall: Mrs. Velasquez from next door, who’s front hall is still littered with bicycles that belonged to her long late husband; the Carter twins from across who watch Arthur as if he had hung the sun in the sky and can only be differentiated by the books in their hands; Martha, by the staircase, hands full with a burgeoning Ph.D. and a side gig in box braids. He’s become a natural at navigating their language and their conversation. Every so often, he’ll come in with new gossip that serves them well at the dinner table or with a new idiom he’s picked up to add to his vocabulary. Last week’s was “it’s not rocket science”. It was apparently not rocket science to understand the plot to _L’autre monde_ by Bergerac3. Merlin smiles brightly every time a phrase like this pops up. Even he, the oldest man on Earth, can hardly adapt to the slang and yet Artur has taken the new language in stride.

Arthur isn’t quoting now, though. He is stretched out, prone upon the sofa, his powerful legs draped across the coffee table. He would be the picture of decadence, with that pose, and this backdrop, luxurious as he feels, if not for the way he has curled himself into Merlin. His eyes are scantily open, and he breathes in long, peaceful intakes that teeter on the edge of lethargy. He is warm against Merlin’s arm. His weight is comforting.

Merlin imagines it happening like this: a hand, sliding into his lap. A squeeze. They share a brief look before the cold disappears. Merlin shifts on top of the king and folds into him without the need for words. The lamp at the corner of the room muffles itself and in the heavy darkness, the two lovers become one, writhing against one another in ecstasy. They have made history together, a brilliant, carnal knowledge in the safety of their memories, and the room enshrines them.

This is not what happens, if only because Merlin has no more control over the situation than he has over his own mind. 

Instead, it happens like this: Arthur’s voice, deep and rough, as it rumbles through Merlin’s core and reminds him that this isn’t something they should be doing. Merlin quiets him with a rasping denial and a hand on his pink, pink, pink lips. Arthur pushes himself up and begins to undress, pulling Merlin up so that he can cup his face. They both descend into animal-like states. Merlin feels like an antelope, ravaged by the predator he’s caught himself beneath. They transform under the moonlight that peeks naughtily through the curtains and rampage throughout the house, tearing it down and building a paradise in its place.

This is not what happens either. Merlin continues to knot himself into the short strands of his King’s hair, falling into a listless trance.

“I was talking to Marley, yes, yes, I know,” Arthur says. “And she said that you were my male companion.”

He falls briefly silent, before continuing: “I thought it absurd that she spoke of you in such a manner, but her reaction suggested more than simple amity.”

“What was the phrase she used?” Merlin asks.

Arthur seems to hesitate. Is it a word he has not heard before or a concept he has yet to grasp? “Boyfriend,” he whispers.

Merlin knows that Arthur understands the heavy context behind those words. He lets the moment fall away, brings his hand to a gentle standstill by the ridge of Arthur’s ear. Arthur’s breath buzzes against his shoulder.

“Boyfriend,” Merlin repeats, quietly.

Arthur doesn’t respond. There is a careful intimacy in the atmosphere, a sense of teetering towards a precipice that both of them are too afraid to gaze over. They have stumbled upon their gambling table but are too tentative to draw.

“She assumes we’re courting,” Merlin clarifies, though more for his own sake than for Arthur’s. 

“I know,” Arthur says.

“Does that bother you?” Merlin asks. He is certain that any answer he could receive would not be the answer he would want to hear. He is not sure if there is a correct answer.

Arthur ponders the question for what could be scientifically classified as the greater part of an age. It lasts only moments, but each click of Merlin’s watch, fitted against Arthur’s side, strides in long, laborious paces. “No,” Arthur says, pensive, “No it doesn’t.”

Merlin nods. “It doesn’t bother me either,” he says. 

It dawns on Merlin that every sentence of theirs has become coded, fraught with meaning. Merlin isn’t quite sure what yet they are trying to convey. 

“Merlin,” Arthur mutters. He shifts, turning to face the sorcerer, bright eyes anxious. He looks away, immersed in the room beyond Merlin’s left ear. This is a brave man; his nerves, however, hold him fast. He looks two seconds from sprinting– where, of course, is the problem, what with them all locked up– and he’s gone tense.

“What would you do if I told you…” It takes all of Merlin’s effort not to leap into Arthur’s thoughts, not to spoil the statement before it breaches Arthur’s mouth. 

He lets out a faint “Go on” amidst the racing of his heart.

“If I told you that it bothers me that we’re… not courting,” Arthur says.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, lost in the implications of the phrase.

Arthur blushes. The pigment is vivid against the pallor of his skin. Carmine in his bashfulness, Merlin can barely focus on his next words: “I appreciate you, Merlin, more than basic camaraderie. These emotions that I threaten to impart upon, they’re–” Arthur’s register begins to pick up in force and he regains his reputed valor.

“They’re much more powerful than any feelings of devotion to my wife, Guinevere, so long ago. I have never felt so firmly such emotions towards another, and it may have taken my sudden resurrection in the land of the 21st century to realize it, but Merlin, I am in love with a man, and that man, against all of my better judgment, is you.”

Merlin is breathless. Arthur continues. “I no longer must concern myself over the fate of a kingdom I couldn’t possibly have hoped to save. I no longer must cower behind my father’s every word. In this new century, I have discovered untold freedoms, of the likes of which I could never have even dared to dream. Merlin, you have always been blessed with wondrous inner freedom. I have only just begun to explore mine. But I can assure you, with a clarity afforded to so few subjects, that the most important of these is the freedom to love. 

“I know now to whom I have bestowed my heart. There is no other on this planet who could bear comparison to you. What I’m trying to say, Merlin, is that,” Arthur tentatively reaches for Merlin’s hand. Merlin, stunned, lets him, and their fingers curl together in a reassuring manner. Their fingers clasp gently, threaded across the span of their bodies.

“I love you,” Arthur says.

Merlin can hardly process the information as it tumbles alarmingly throughout his skull. It’s been centuries since he’s harbored these feelings towards Arthur, mere weeks since they’ve resurfaced, and he thinks he might just be a little high on elation at the moment because that three-word passcode to all of his dreams and desires has yet to quite sink in. Merlin is left floundering. He grips Arthur’s hand tighter, anchoring himself to the common land, feeling his magic simmer up and threaten to leak out of his every pore. Arthur stays silent, patient, aware that the words he has just relinquished are not for the faint of heart. 

When Merlin is finally ready to speak, it takes a Herculean effort not to let a millennium of unspoken prayers tumble forth from his lips. “I love you,” Merlin repeats.

“May I kiss you?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Merlin says. 

They fall into each other slowly. Their lips brush against one another, still worried about closing the last chapter of their lives, before Merlin pushes in. He presses his mouth against Arthur’s and the warmth he’s felt since Arthur’s return is suddenly amplified tenfold. It isn’t the fireworks and lustful grapple of the bodice rippers his coworkers used to read, nor is it the soul-fulfilling promise of the chivalric romances born from a time after Albion was conceived, but it still sets Merlin’s very being alight. Arthur is powerful beneath him, coiled sinew and muscle and love. Merlin feels light as a feather.

They separate, their kiss nothing more than chaste, and both of them are high on euphoria.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I got here,” Arthur says.

Merlin is grinning. “I think I’ve got you beat.” His grin is mirrored on Arthur’s pace, and it’s turned him into a celebration. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you left.”

Arthur chokes out a giddy laugh. He has hardly to wait before he is pulled back in, and they lose themselves in the exaltation. Merlin feels Arthur’s hand brush against his back. The hands only hesitate for a second before gripping him tightly; in return, Merlin brings a second hand up to the base of Arthur’s head. 

The kiss is one Merlin has been dreaming of for ages. He still can’t be sure that this isn’t an elaborate hallucination. Even so, he is happier than he has ever felt.

“I love you,” he says, quiet so that the words are reserved only for Arthur.

“I love you more,” Arthur says, and though Merlin has loved Arthur for so much longer, has loved him more than any poet has ever loved their muse, Merlin can’t help but believe him.

...

**Author's Note:**

> So someone (me) thought it would be really funny to make returned Arthur occasionally speak incredibly formally. They also thought it would be a good idea to write things in short, 11 pm bouts. 
> 
> 1\. [_Y Gododdin_](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/9842/9842-h/9842-h.htm) is one of the earliest examples of Medieval literature, one of the only secular great epics. I chose it because it’s pretty awesome, but also because it’s Early English Literature, so it’s not too far off the mark that Arthur may have heard it. That being said, I do think it’s the first example of king Arthur in literature, so it is the og canon. Back
> 
> 2\. [Sonnet 17](https://www.sparknotes.com/nofear/shakespeare/sonnets/sonnet_17/) Back
> 
> 3\. _L’autre monde_ , by Cyrano de Bergerac, is credited as the first description of rocket-powered space flight. It tells the story of a man named Cyrano who attempts to reach the moon to prove the existence of another civilization that exists upon it. His first attempt involves bottles of dew, but soon evolve into flying machines launched off cliffs and rockets that are accidentally lit to commemorate the feast day of St. John the baptist. Interesting plot points include guns that cook game as it is shot, discussions about God as a useless concept, the ghost of Socrates, and a theory that the Sun creates all matter (and therefore the reason the Americas were not discovered sooner is that the continent has only recently been sent down to Earth). The comment is funny because while it might not be difficult to understand the plot, it’s still a book about rocket science. Back
> 
> Am I addicted to italics? Somebody help me. HTML has taken over my life. I have started writing references in my text just so that I can hyperlink them.


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